


Nowhere I'd Rather Be

by abeautifulmess



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, I won't lie this is mostly fluff, Idiots in Love, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, One Shot, Sleepy Cuddles, and then more fluff, but hey we all need a bit of shmoop in our lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 18:50:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2120838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abeautifulmess/pseuds/abeautifulmess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is having difficulty sleeping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nowhere I'd Rather Be

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a very long time since I've done any writing like this, so this is mostly a small exercise to get me warmed up and back into the swing of things. It's a bit short, it's a bit random. But it's something - success! I hope it's at least mildly enjoyable. (Apologies if you're more inclined to angst..)

‘Sherlock… Sherlock. Stop moving.’ The pile of dark curls still on John’s chest, followed by the sound of a defeated sigh.

‘Mmph.’ He grumbles, bleary eyes lifting to look at John. He wriggles a bit. ‘Uncomfortable.’

John sighs on a smile. 

‘Alright, alright, stop fussing. Here.’ The smaller man shifts himself further up the bed, propping his shoulders on a pillow against the headboard. 

Sherlock lifts himself, arms either side of John’s body and settles back down onto his chest. Gentle fingers find their way into Sherlock’s curls. Head tilts towards John, leans into his touch.

‘Better?’

There’s a brief pause.

‘Adequate.’ 

John laughs, the sound rising up through his chest and out of his mouth and it is quite possibly the most beautiful thing Sherlock has ever heard. Warm lips press to John’s throat with a hum of appreciation. 

‘What’s with you tonight? Can’t sleep?’ 

‘Never sleep.’ Sherlock mumbles, kissing the line of John’s jaw. John laughs, voice soft, fond.

‘Yes you do. I _know_ you do.’

Sherlock huffs out a snort at the implication he do something so mundane as sleeping. 

‘I’ve seen you.’ John says. He waits a few beats. ‘You snore.’ 

‘I do _not_ snore.’ 

John tilts his head, smiles. Curved lips find the dip of Sherlock’s temple. ‘Of course you don’t.’ He says with a smile into Sherlock’s hair, fingers twirling a particularly stubborn curl at the base of his neck. 

It’s dark outside, dull light from the streetlamp filtering through the small gap in the curtains. It’s late, or early... There’s a faint buzz of traffic from the streets outside.

John is no stranger to Sherlock’s irregular sleep patterns, or his tendency to wake in the middle of the night with no hope of falling back to sleep after. It was difficult for him, to shut his brain off and properly relax. Usually, Sherlock would go into the kitchen to revive some long-ago abandoned experiment. Or take out his violin and play until the sun begins to rise, washing away with it all traces of the night. But very occasionally, Sherlock will stay in bed with him, ear pressed to John’s chest and counting each and every breath, tapping out the thrumming pattern against skin until the beat of their hearts are a perfect match. 

It’s warm here, in bed with Sherlock. The man is long and lean and there is so _much_ of him. John is used to being used as a pillow now, being slept on and poked and prodded with sharp and delicate elbows and knees in the middle of the night when he is trying to sleep. He doesn’t mind.

‘Why must you wear so much clothing.’ Sherlock complains as he lifts his head, a little crease appearing between furrowed brows. Long pale fingers pluck at the fabric of John’s grey t-shirt. ‘It’s insufferable.’

‘Not what you said before.’ John mutters, stretching his arms under his head with a yawn. 

Grey eyes meet John’s in the lamplight, razor sharp like glass.

‘What.’ Sherlock says flatly, heavy enunciation on the ‘t’. He is known to regress to a childish strop and, on occasion, pouty lower lip when he doesn’t understand what John is saying. 

‘You told me you like my jumpers.’ John shrugs. ‘That they make me ‘pleasing to look at’.’

‘I… when did I tell you that I’ve never told you that.’ It comes out quickly, all in one breath and Sherlock is looking at him with a hard gaze, face composed but for his panic-stricken eyes. 

John’s lips press tight and he doesn’t laugh. He definitely does not laugh.

‘Turns out you say lots of things when you’ve had a bit to drink.’ Shoulder lifts in a shrug, nonchalant. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. 

‘I said that. I said that out loud.’ He says, blinking.

‘Yes.’

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, pauses. He releases a held breath. 

‘Damn.’

‘Don’t be embarrassed. It was quite sweet, actually.’

‘Shut up.’

‘No really, Sherlock, you said such polite things about me.’

‘Shut up _now._ ’

John giggles, pushes away a hand that swats at him. 

‘I mean really if I’d have known that-‘

The pressure of warm, soft lips quietens him. So very warm, and so _very_ soft. Breath leaves his lungs in a rush as laughter dissipates into lips, the giddy high that comes with kissing Sherlock; still the same as it ever was.

It’s gentle, and warm, and John can feel the catch of Sherlock’s breath against his skin, the careful scrape and nip of teeth at lower lip. The man’s mouth is soft and pliant, his delicate lips a wonder of contradiction to the sharp words they so often form. 

John’s hands move from under his head, slipping up around the slim waist above him. Thumbs rub circles into sensitive skin.

Sherlock’s lips part, body shivering as he huffs a breath into John’s mouth, a quiet noise forming in the back of his throat. He starts to tremble above him, body trying hard to hold itself upright. John shifts, and stretches his legs further apart, pulling Sherlock into him. Body gives in, takes what it wants. 

Lips find the hollow of pale throat, kissing and pressing and licking at the delicate stretch of skin there. Skin that only John has ever had the pleasure of tasting. Sherlock is still, breath coming fast with the rise and fall of his chest.

‘Alright?’ John breathes, the movement of lips against throat making Sherlock shiver. 

‘Mm.’ Sherlock says, nudging John away with his nose to find his mouth. Lower lip slips between John’s mouth, warm and wet and _lovely._ They press, lift, breathe and inhale, fingers tightening into cloth, against skin. ‘Except…’

John stills, pulls back, lips a breath away from Sherlock’s. He waits, fingertips hovering over warm skin.

‘Except?’ His tongue peeks out to wet his lips, a nervous habit. Sherlock watches, tongue desperate to mirror the movement, to reach out and taste… He exhales a put-upon sigh.

‘Your groin is pushing into my bladder which is quite inconvenient actually as I really have to-‘

‘Okay, okay…’ John puts a finger to Sherlock’s lips to stop him, barely concealing a choked laugh.

‘-Relieve myself.’ 

The laughter that escapes John’s mouth is lovely. It is happy. John is happy. And Sherlock can’t help but join him, warm air puffing against his cheek as John pushes at his shoulder. 

‘Go and piss then, Sherlock.’ He says, eyes fond and heavy lidded with amusement as he leans back against the pillow, brushing his tongue over pink and kiss-swollen lips. 

‘Stay exactly where you are.’ Sherlock murmurs into his mouth, pulling himself away and up with a final kiss as he takes half the bed covers with him. He rolls off the bed, feet landing on the floor as he lifts himself up dramatically and pads out of the bedroom, stretching long arms up behind him as he goes.

The room shifts a bit, Sherlock’s absence making the temperature notably dip.

John stays where he is, turning his head into the pillow next to him and smiling. He inhales through his nose, the scent of Sherlock’s almond shampoo a warm and comforting one. Shifting over towards the other side of the bed, John curls in on himself and tugs the duvet up a bit further. He breathes out a sleepy hum.

Everything’s a bit fuzzy when Sherlock walks back in. John is tired, eyes heavy and aching. 

‘Your body is succumbing to the urges of sleep.’ Sherlock says, watching John from the doorway. His voice sounds odd. Fond. 

‘Good deduction, that.’ John says on a yawn, stretching his arms up in the air. Sherlock climbs onto the bed, moving over John until he’s settled content at his side, cheek pressed to John’s shoulder. John’s hand lifts up to Sherlock’s arm, the pads of his fingers stroking softly at warm skin, drifting lower until he reaches Sherlock’s hand, finger’s curling and moving together. 

‘Will you go to sleep, now?’ He murmurs into soft curls. 

‘Hm.’

John smiles, eyes drifting shut. 

‘No experiments to work on?’

There’s a small sniff. 

‘None that currently require my attention.’ Sherlock’s version of ‘I want to stay in bed with you.’ 

Lips pull into a smile. 

‘Tha’s good then. You can keep me warm.’ John presses closer, head resting so close to Sherlock’s, sharing the same breath as his words whisper between them. Head shifts, lips pressing to the skin of John’s cheek before resting against the pillow. Eyes open, stare, the pad of Sherlock’s thumb idly rubbing John’s palm. He smiles. Nose to nose, hand in hand, nestled in safety. 

_There’s nowhere I’d rather be._


End file.
